


An Honest Mistake

by astano



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astano/pseuds/astano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she crawls back to the end of the bed and fishes the phone out of her pocket, she’s annoyed, then intrigued, to find the message is from Quinn, and it reads: <em>I’ve been thinking about you</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honest Mistake

It’s late and Santana’s just about dead on her feet. Honestly, if she’d known exactly how hard tending bar was, she might have thought twice about going for the job. The other girls had assured her that she’d soon get used to being on her feet for eight hours straight, but right now, Santana’s having a hard time believing them.

She dumps her coat and bag by the door to the loft and makes her way through to the cordoned off area that’s become her own. Her bed is still just a mattress on the floor, but her sheets are soft and warm, and all she wants right now is to collapse into them and go to sleep.

Her work clothes land in a pile at the foot of the mattress—she’ll sort them out tomorrow—and she sinks down to her knees, letting out a quiet groan of relief as she flops forward, landing face first onto her pillow.

Just as she’s pulled the covers around her body, she’s startled by the sound of her phone vibrating from the pocket of her pants. Briefly, she considers ignoring it, because it seems far too much effort to move now that she’s horizontal, but then realises it could be important—Kurt and Rachel are both out somewhere and she dreads to think what kind of trouble they could have gotten themselves into.

When she crawls back to the end of the bed and fishes the phone out of her pocket, she’s annoyed, then intrigued, to find the message is from Quinn, and it reads: _I’ve been thinking about you_.

Well. While the text is unexpected, she’d be lying to herself if she said she’s not also been thinking about Quinn. Not that it would be anything she’d ever freely admit out loud. After a couple of seconds of thought, where curiosity battles with exhaustion, she sends back: _Really? And what, exactly, have you been thinking about?_

Quinn’s reply is quick. _Kissing you. What would have happened if my roommate hadn’t come home early._

Santana’s momentarily confused, but really, there can only be one explanation: Quinn thinks she’s texting someone else. She considers telling Quinn, but once again, curiosity overrides any small sense of decency she may have, so she replies: _Yeah? What did you want to happen?_

_I wanted to touch you. More than we were, I mean._

Santana almost laughs, because she should have known Quinn wouldn’t be all that good at dirty talk. She can almost see the blush that’s no doubt colouring Quinn’s face and decides -- for the sake of curiosity, of course -- that it’s probably a good idea to give her a prod in the right direction. 

_I think you can do better than that. Where did you want to touch me?_

When the message is sent, Santana eases back down onto her bed, idly running her fingers over her stomach as she considers whether she actually wants to do this. But really, there are only so many times you can come on your own hand to memories of your best friend before it gets weird, and Santana hit that point about three weeks ago. And because she can’t seem to force her brain to think of anything else, it means she’s becoming a little pent up in the orgasm department. 

Not that this is really all that much better, of course, but at least Quinn is a somewhat willing participant, even if she doesn’t know she’s texting Santana.

Her flaky justification for the way her hand is starting to move with slightly more purpose, skimming along the underside of her breasts—just a tease for the moment—is interrupted by her phone vibrating again.

_I’d touch you everywhere. Starting with kissing your neck. Running my hands over your body. Nowhere you need me. Not just yet._

A small part of Santana’s mind mentally congratulates Quinn, because that’s getting more like it, but then her eyes close as she remembers just what a fucking tease Quinn was. She might have never been with a girl before, might have serious issues when it comes to verbalising her needs, but Quinn learnt quickly exactly how to bring Santana right to the edge and leave her there, just hanging, until she was good and ready. It was fucking torture, but when Quinn finally relented, Santana came so hard she could barely remember her own name.

It’s only then that it occurs to Santana that it’s possible, if not highly probable, given her past, that Quinn thinks she’s talking to a guy. That could make things less fun pretty quickly, still, while Quinn’s not being too specific, she’s just going to go with it and hope for the best.

Trailing her hands further upwards, she briefly skims the pads of her fingers over her breasts, purposely avoiding her nipples. It’s still enough to make them tighten and ache, and it takes a good amount of willpower not to give in and brush her thumbs over the tips.

_Mmmm. That feels good. I want more. Don’t tease._

She drops her phone to the bed once the message is sent, then finally gives in and allows her fingers to close over both her nipples, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure to set a quiet groan loose from her throat. She can feel the slickness growing between her legs, and knows, whether Quinn wants to drag this out or not, it’s not going to be long before she has to do something about it.

_You really are impatient. What do you want? My mouth on your breasts? My fingers inside you?_

And, well, that answers her earlier question. The brief flare of jealousy she feels at the thought of Quinn being with a girl who’s not her is quickly brushed aside, because she’s got more important things to deal with right now. Like how she feels herself clench at just the memory of how amazing Quinn’s fingers felt. She quickly types out her reply ( _Both. Fuck, Quinn. Are you touching yourself?_ ) before scratching her hands lightly down her body. The shudder and jerk of her hips as she reaches the band of her panties is completely out of her control.

In the back of her mind, she’s aware this is going a little further than it probably should, given Quinn thinks she’s texting someone else, but Santana really doesn’t know if she can stop. When Quinn texts back, _Two fingers. Thrusting inside you. Making you groan my name. And yes_ , Santana can’t stop herself from sliding her own fingers inside, imagining they’re Quinn’s, thinking about Quinn doing the same to herself.

She knows exactly what Quinn looks like when she’s got two fingers buried deep. Knows the flush that will be on her face; the parted lips; gasping breaths; eyes that can barely stay open. _Fuck_.

Against all her better judgement, instead of replying to Quinn’s message, she hits call and sets her phone to speaker.

“Hi,” Quinn says.

It takes a couple of seconds for Santana to make her voice work, because, _jesus fuck_ , Quinn’s voice, just on that one word, is low and gravelly, and it’s pretty clear she wasn’t lying when she said she was touching herself.

“You know you’ve been texting me, and not whatever Yale harlot you thought you were texting?” She trusts Quinn will recognise her voice, even though it must sound just as full of arousal as Quinn’s does.

Quinn just kind of chuckles, which was completely the opposite of what Santana was expecting. “Of course I know. I realised after the second message.”

The _I’m not a fucking idiot_ , is implied by the tone of Quinn’s voice, of course, and Santana shakes her head with a smile. But, there’s the fact Quinn _did_ know who was on the other end of the phone, and she obviously didn’t care enough to stop.

Although she already knows the answer, she says, “You really touching yourself?”

“Are you?”

Santana slips her fingers back down, pressing into herself just barely, teasing in a way that makes her breath catch. She doesn’t miss the hitch in Quinn’s own breathing when she says, “Yeah.”

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Quinn says. “I don’t think I can—not on the phone. But... Oh, God, just—”

“I’m fucking myself,” Santana says, and presses just a little deeper, enough that it takes a second before she can continue. “Two fingers, just like you said.” The quiet moan Quinn lets out sets off a shudder through Santana’s own body, and she arches up into her hand, gasping when her palm brushes against her clit. “Are you...”

“Yeah,” Quinn says shakily. “Same.”

“Fuck, Quinn... Tell me—tell me what you’d want if I were there.”

“ _Santana_ , I can’t—”

“Do you want my mouth? You liked that. Liked— _fuck_ —liked when I went down on you.” Santana groans at the memory, slips her fingers out to press wet and sticky against her clit, because her palm brushing against it occasionally is just nowhere near enough. “You tasted amazing. I didn’t want to stop, Quinn. Even after you came, I wanted to make you come again and again.”

“ _God_. Your _mouth_ , I—”

“Are you thinking about it? Thinking about me lying between your legs, my tongue licking at you just the way you need, until you can’t do anything but lie back, close your eyes, and beg for more.” Santana groans at her own words, bucks up into her hand as she remembers the feeling of Quinn tense and trembling, knotting her fingers in Santana’s hair as she tried to guide Santana’s mouth into giving her more. 

“Tell me, Quinn, do you want my fingers, too?  Ask for them nicely.” Quinn lets out this strangled little whine, like she wants to tell Santana to fuck off, but can’t quite make the words come out. Santana closes her eyes, tries to regain a little control of her breathing before she continues. “You didn’t seem to have any problems begging me last time, Quinn. I think you liked it.”

“From what I recall, I wasn’t the only one begging by the end of the night.”

Quinn’s voice is a low growl and Santana swallows hard, the memory still fresh in her mind of Quinn holding her down, drawing out her orgasm until she thought she might pass out. “I’m— _fuck_ , Quinn. Are you close?”

“Yeah, I—God, I’m almost there.”

“I want to hear you come, Quinn. Fuck, just—make yourself come for me.”

Quinn groans softly, and then there’s just the sound of their heavy breathing for a few seconds, interspersed by Quinn’s high-pitched whimpers that Santana’s starting to learn means she’s right on edge. She slows her own hand, listening to the sound of Quinn fucking herself—the soft wet sounds that only barely filter through the phone—and, _Jesus_ , just the thought that that’s what she’s doing is enough to make her hips jerk almost violently upwards.

“Santana, _oh_ —oh, God.” Quinn’s words trail off into a sharp cry as she comes, and the sound of that—the sound of Quinn gasping out her name seconds later—is too much for Santana. She presses down hard against her clit, stroking almost frantically, and when Quinn says her name again, it’s all over.

She runs her hands languidly over her body as she comes down, and lets out a satisfied sigh, earning a low chuckle from Quinn in response, then, “That was... not entirely unpleasant.”

Santana huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”

She can feel the drowsy post-orgasm feeling settling into her body, sped along by the fact that she was bone-tired before, and decides any further conversation is going to have to wait.

Quinn lets her off the phone with a quick goodbye, and Santana shuffles down the bed a little, pulling the covers over her head and letting out a quiet groan when she realises she feels relaxed for the first time in weeks. It takes her almost no time at all to fall asleep, and the last thought to run through her mind is that she wouldn’t be opposed to falling asleep every night after an orgasm that good.


End file.
